


The Thrice-Crowned

by therune



Series: Tales of Kingsman [3]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therune/pseuds/therune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>originally written for the kinkmeme:<br/><i>Give me anything about Arthur and his Kingsmen - the soft spot he obviously has for Harry, his initial doubts about Percival, forever despairing over Lancelot's antics, Merlin is still his favourite.</i></p><p>
  <i>Fluff, angst, smut - anything at all.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>+1 for Arthur becoming head of the Kingsmen due to a devastating loss of agents and he looks around at his new Table and they're all just boys.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>+10 for tricks and hookups and shenanigans back at HQ (Lancelot always gets the blame but Harry can be surprisingly anarchic when the mood strikes him). Merlin may or may not have been involved - Arthur never did quite know.</i>
</p><p>Quite a somber tale of Arthur's life and what led him to the end</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thrice-Crowned

It is 1933 and a boy is born to the King family. 

It is 1946, his name is Reginald Chesterfield King and he first sets foot into Winchester College. . 

It is 1950, his name is Chester King and he graduates with top marks from Winchester. On top of his impeccable school marks, he has a few fencing tournaments under his belt, three chess chamionships, two medals from swimming competitions, a prize for his role as Antonio in the school's production of The Merchant of Venice, access to all universities and already four job offers from prestigious law firms. He is 17 and the world is laying at his feet. He gets approached by Kingsman. The man he would later know as Kay presents him as his candidate. 

It is 1951, his name is Mordred and saves the royal family from an assassination attempt. 

It is 1954, his name is Mordred and a new handler gets assigned to him. Her name is Merlin, she wears cateye glasses, and it is with her voice in his ears that he stops the launch of a nuclear missile. 

It is 1956, his name is Richard Jäger and he is undercover in South America, taking out fled Nazis. He tells himself that he is strictly professional and not a tad too enthusiastic, as Merlin put it. 

It is 1958, his name is Mordred and he feels like weeping after stepping off the plane and touching British soil for the first time in what has been three years but feels thirty. 

It is 1959, his name is Mordred and it is then that he first tastes the Kingsman brandy and although his taste buds tell him that it's excellent, his upbringing instills him with a high appreciation of spirits, it tastes like ash in his mouth. Lancelot had been crushed after a chase on a train to get launch codes away from the Russians. He had succeeded, destroying the codes alongside with him. And the train car. 

It is 1960, his name is Mordred and he is on his first mission with Lancelot, although he had been with him for 7 already. 

It is 1962, his name is Mordred, Love me do comes out and he guns down three enemy agents in the tube on his way to work. 

It is 1963, his name is Mordred and he saves the boy. The mission had gone, so horribly wrong. His family wasn't supposed to accompany him to London. There should have been 4 men, not 9. His communicator has stopped working even before he got to the site. The ambassador dies, his wife dies, but the boy - Mordred can save the boy. After he dispatches of the remaining men, he crouches down. It is unbearably loud as well as frighteningly quiet. The flames roar - grenade launcher and cars, not a good combination - there are sirens, screams, but all he can hear are tiny sobs against his ear, the boy's arms clutching his neck. Mordred isn't sure if the boy even understands English, but he cannot stop himself from offering words of comfort anyway. Kay arrives and together they take the boy to the hospital. He is told that he should go, that he has done all that he can. Still, Merlin finds him sitting in the boys's hospital room, watching a small chest rise and fall. She straightens her skirt and conveniently pockets her cat eye glasses, stopping the transmission. It's only audio, but no one needs to hear what she has to say except Mordred.  
"Sometimes missions go wrong. You saved him. He is going to be alright."  
"Is he?"  
"Yes. In two days, he is going home with his family, the de Hertes. He will be loved, Mordred."  
Of course that is not his family's name. He had been from Hungary. But it's the 60s and no one stops a female secretary with an arm full of folders. Merlin slips in and out of wherever she pleases when she isn't handling him or the other agents. He isn't sure how many hours he has spent with her voice in his ears.  
She places a hand on his shoulder.  
"You saved him. He lives."

It is 1963, his name is Mordred, Doctor Who airs for the first time and he stops yet another attempt on her majesty's life. A duchess thanks him in person and he thinks that he would love his job more if it came with perks like that. 

It is 1966 and when he is sitting with a gunshot wound to the chest in the infirmary, nursing a brandy he should not be drinking, Merlin stops by to debrief him. She leaves a photograph behind, carefully folded in her hand. It shows a class of young boys in public school uniforms, half of them bright-eyed, the other trying to hide homesickness. Reminds him of his days at school. The first things he notices among the background analysis of uniforms, building , location, time of shot, is a boy in the second row. He is one of the bright-eyed ones. His boy. 

It is 1971, his name is Peter van der Waals and is undercover in South Africa.

It is 1972, his name is Mordred and he gets back to England with a truly impressive tan. 

It is 1973, his name is Mordred and Gawain dies. The brandy still tastes awful.

It is 1974, his name is Mordred and he trades blows with an agent in Eastern Germany.

It is 1975, his name is Mordred and Monty Python's Holy Grail comes into cinemas. Despite being spread all over the world, fighting the cold war, enemy agents and domestic threats, every one of them sees it at one time. Being stuffy, English gentlemen, of course they love it and quote it among themselves for an impressive amount of time. Everyone addresses Merlin as Tim for the next month.

It is 1976, his name is Mordred and Yvain dies. 

It is 1979, his name is Mordred and Bedivere dies. 

It is 1980, his name is Mordred and Bors is blown apart. The technology at Kingsman develops in leaps and bounds, their glasses now being able to transmit video feeds. It is highly effective, valued and sickening as he realizes that Nimue saw Bors die through his eyes.

It is 1980, his name is Alexander and he argues with Merlin to send another agent to Russia. He still has scars from one of their widows. 

It is 1981, his name is Mordred, and Ector and Tristan die in Argentina. He is on a mission in France, disabling a bomb on the Eiffel Tower. He manages to disable it, only to get shot at. He runs and runs, never time to stop and get to his weapons. He's hiding near the Louvre when Merlin directs him to go inside, new intelligence suggests that there are more bombs in there. She's telling him how to defuse them, reassures him that everything is alright when he inquires about her labored breathing. She has a stroke on the mission and dies before he crosses the Atlantic. He still hates the brandy, but it' s the first time it had made him throw up. 

It is 1982 and Galahad dies, succumbing to lung cancer. Possibly the first Kingman to die from a normal illness that wasn't caused directly or indirectly by bullets or explosions. He presents his candidate, top pick from Winchester. As he sees the other candidates for the first time through the one-way mirror, he feels like being punched. The man presented by Lancelot is a bright eyed young man, in his early twenties, with brown eyes. His boy. The boy who lived, who made it all alright, has flourished. He could become a Kingsman. Mordred has never been more proud. 

It is 1982, his name is Mordred and Galahad finds him in the shop, looking at one of the suits on display when he's actually not looking at anything at all. Galahad recognized him, from all those years ago. They're in the dressing room, Galahad has his arms around his neck, whispering 'thank you' into his ear. Mordred places a hand on Galahad's back and suddenly things make sense. It was as if he had been drifting at sea and he has been found. They don't let go for a long time, and then Mordred offers Galahad a private tour. Galahad has seen much, but not all during his training. Mordred is delighted with the wide, open look on Galahad's face. It's wonder, he realizes. 

It is 1983, his name is Mordred and he is on a mission in Beirut with Galahad. Watching Galahad in action is a thing of beauty. All Kingsman wear similar suits and equipment, but every one of them has a distinct style. Mordred's style is straightforward and fast, running towards danger and succeeding. Pellinore prefers to sneak, keeps out of sight. Agravaine is essentially a human tank. And currently in deep cover in Russia and has been since World War II. Gingalain is just inhumanly fast. Gareth is their top sniper, usually operating miles away from his target if he can. Galahad is elegant. No flourishes or distraction like Leodegrance, no deceptive weakness like Ector - he is efficient and ruthless. He is the only Kingsman preferring the umbrella over all their weapons and the poison pen. Mordred himself prefers his pistols - straightforward. When he asks Galahad, the boy gives him a grin. "It is like a shield," he replies. 

It is 1984, his name is Mordred and he invites Galahad to his house, for a glass of whiskey- never for cigars- or lessons. Galahad looks forward to them, listening to Mordred's stories, learning about weapons or just spending time. Their friendly banter follows them into their work.Tristan holds his breath, braced for impact, when Galahad calls Mordred an "old man" after a meeting. Mordred has gained a reputation, as he is aware. Straightforward. Rude, even. Not forgiving failure and having a long memory. None of the senior members would have said, some of the younger who doubtlessly wanted would dare. Mordred fixes Galahad with a stare and feels relief when there is no trace of fear nor disrespect. "And you are a cheeky boy, Galahad," he merely replies and watches as Galahad saunters out of the room, young Tristan looking on in shock. 

It is 1986, his name is Mordred and he gets a new handler, a young man from Scotland, one he recruited himself straight out of college. He is currently operating under the name Vivianne although he doesn't doubt that the boy will go far, possibly become Merlin. Their current Merlin isn't a bad, not at all. He is kind, knowledgeable and frequently gives out additional information about the city they're in or historical background that is in no way relevant for the mission, but interesting pieces of trivia. But he's not Mordred's Merlin. 

It is 1987, his name is Mordred and he nearly gets shot when Galahad calls Vivianne 'Tim' and laughs. Vivianne replies in his Scottish brogue that that comparison doesn't work since this Galahad is neither pure nor chaste. It hurts, but at the same time... it doesn't feel bad. Galahad dispatches the shooter for Mordred and remarks that he has gotten slow, my old man. He is over 50 now, but that has never stopped a Kingsman. Truthfully, almost none of them had lived to see that age. He calls Galahad cheeky and laughs instead. 

It is 1988, his name is Mordred, and all is right with the world. Vivianne has invited him to his workshop, to show him the new gadgets he made and the ones he improved on. The glasses' reception is much better and worldwide, he is utilizing a digital connection between computers to transfer data and he invented a hand grenade which looks like a lighter. Mordred calls him a smart lad and Vivianne blushes red to his hairline. Some times, he joins Mordred and his boy on their meetings, brimming with enthusiasm and ideas. Galahad is ever appreciative, but still asks for more. Mordred feels content as he sits back, nursing his martini and listens to Vivianne explain exasperated that he will not build an umbrella with a blade inside, that is for cheap science-fiction novels and would compromise the integrity of the whole construction. 

It is 1989, his name is Mordred and the Berlin wall falls. Kay dies and his world breaks apart. He drinks the brandy he still hates, looks around and they're just boys. The first time he sat there, they were stern-faced men. But that was a lifetime ago and they kept on dying, every one of them. He puts on the glasses and drinks to his fallen friend, his oldest friend. It strikes him with sharp cruelty. He is the only one left of the old guard. All the people here came after him. It's true, he felt his age on the missions (my old man), feeling that he used to be stronger, used to be able to do this quicker, but today is the first time he feels truly old. Everyone else is dead. They're all dead. 

It is 1991, his name is Arthur and he welcomes a new Mordred into their ranks. The previous Arthur had died, and the successor is chosen from the existing Kingsman. He has seniority and no one questioned his nomination. Now he sits at the head of the table and sends his men out into the world. Now he is the one who pours when they lose Percival. Another Percival, he thinks bitterly. How many more of them will he see?  
The glasses come off and the present agents leave. He hears chairs scraping, oxfords moving on the ground. It is then that he puts his face in his palm. He wishes....for what?  
He wants Kay back and his sarcastic wit.  
He wants Gawaine and his laugh that he couldn't stand when the man was alive and now misses like a limb.  
He wants Merlin back, her smooth voice in his ear, how she smirked, how she comforted him. He misses her cateye glasses, her pencil skirt. The way she had just understood.  
He tenses when he feels her hand on his shoulder. But it's not her, it's him.  
It's Galahad. His hand is warm.  
"I'm here."  
His Galahad. His boy.  
Galahad leans over him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. It's almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. The familiarity is painful. He never thought about children, not seriously, not in their line of work, but now... he wishes that he was a father, had a son, had family. That he wasn't alone.  
"You're not alone."  
He has a son, doesn't he?  
His boy.  
In this moment, he dreams. His hand finds Galahad's on his shoulder and he squeezes.  
"Stay" he wants to say.  
"Don't leave." isn't spoken.  
"Thank you," he whispers. 

It is 1992, his name is Arthur and they have a new Merlin. The position had been unfilled, but now his lad has taken over. Someone - Merlin, who else - has transported the Monty Python movie to their new disk technology. The quoting season begins anew. Poor Bedivere is basically haunted by Bors, reciting all the lines. No one says the word 'Merlin' for a month, only ever Tim. Galahad calls him 'my liege', even in front of other kingsman. During one of their private meetings, he asks if he wants him to bring some coconuts the next day and Merlin almost chokes on his coffee. 

It is 1994, his name is Arthur and it's the worst night of his life. Galahad has come back from a mission in Portugal, body being pierced by a bullet through the suit. Percival had had noticed that Galahad had been hit, slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and just ran. It hadn't been until later in the air, safe in their plane that Galahad had touched his side and his hand came back bloody, too full of adrenaline to notice. The doctors fight for his life all night long. A bullet-proof suit is handy, but sadly not against armor-piercing ammunition. Arthur had felt mainly indifferent to Percival, but he owes the man a debt he hopes he will never have to repay.  
Morning finds him sitting in Galahad's hospital room, watching his chest rise and fall. Watch him live. 

It is 1994, his name is Arthur and he is sitting again at Harry's bedside, telling him all kinds of things. Missions he has probably already told him about and forgotten. What Merlin invented last month. Galahad smiles through all of it, face slack in a drugged haze.  
He's there again the next day, watching in amusement as Galahad drags the arm without the I.V. over the blanket, marvelling at its softness.  
During the night, Galahad tells him in a whispered confession that his name isn't really Galahad. It's Harry Hart, as if Arthur isn't aware of it. It's a proper name. Two H. Plus, it sounds like heart. Classic.  
Arthur smiles indulgingly.  
Does it now?  
Do you want to hear an even greater secret?  
Arthur says yes. Maybe it will be again about the fact that Galahad thinks that he should have a sword and that he's been trying to bribe Merlin for years to make one. Not that Merlin had accepted, of course. Officially.  
My real name isn't Harry either.  
Is it now? It's Harold, he knows.  
It's Alexander.  
Arthur swallows. Galahad's right. Harold had been the name given to the boy by his new parents, after he lost his first. It's a sharp reminder that he came so close to losing his boy twice now.  
But I prefer Harry. Sounds knightier.  
Arthur snorts with laughter. He almost wishes he had been wearing his glasses, recording Galahad's drugged ramblings. But then he'd record his own voice, too, and decides against it.  
Are you a knight then, he asks.  
Of course, Galahad replies indignantly, I'm Galahad, knight of the round table.  
He smiles fondly.  
And you're my liege. You are my king.  
Galahad blinks.  
And your name is King. Two kings. Twice the king.  
God bless this medication. Galahad is in awe.  
Do you want to hear a secret, he asks, and leans close.  
His boy is eager, nods.  
My name isn't Chester King.  
It's not Alexander, is it?  
No, my boy. My name is Reginald Chesterfield King. Had it changed before I left Winchester.  
Galahad grabs onto his fingers with surprising strength.  
Reginald. King. Arthur. You're three times my king. My liege, my liege, my liege.  
The thrice-crowned king. 

It is 1995, his name is Arthur, and he still teases Galahad with bits of his drugged confessions. 

It is 1996, his name is Arthur and Lancelot dies. Again. Galahad proposes his candidate. Marine. And lower-class. 

It is 1997, his name is Arthur, and he almost loses Galahad. His candidate saves him. It's the last field mission Merlin goes on. Galahad is shocked to the core. For days after the incident, Galahad sits around in the office, looking at his hands.  
"Why don't you go home?" Arthur suggests.  
They have a new Lancelot, took out a terror cell and Galahad has returned unharmed.  
"It was a brave thing he did."  
Arthur never liked Galahad's candidate, but he saved Galahad's life, so he has been redeemed in his eyes.  
"I-" Galahad begins falteringly, "I was home, after I visited Mrs Unwin. But the next day, I..."  
Galahad looks at his hands again. Arthur knows that he's seeing blood there.  
"I just can't, Arthur, I can't."  
Arthur rests a comforting hand on Galahad's shoulder. 

It is 1997, and for a brief moment he is again Mordred, as Galahad is roaring drunk in his study, telling him all about his little dog. Mr Pickles - without competition the worst name a candidate has ever picked - has died after 15 years and Galahad has taken it hard. He has patiently listened to Galahad rambling about his fur, favorite toys, the time he bit the mailman. 15 years is an admirable age for a dog, but this doesn't console Galahad in the slightest. Not wanting to see Galahad hurt so prominently, he suggests getting a new dog. It's what he did after Elizabeth, Jane, Mary, Catherine and Lydia died. Galahad shoves at him violently.  
"No!" he screams. Hair disheveled, face red, eyes shining with unshed tears."You can't! You can't just replace them!"  
He falls back into his chair, still. "He was my dog" he whispers heartbroken.  
Arthur puts away the liquor. He knows it's not just about dogs.  
He has no more qualms replacing his rottweiler than he has with his Kingsman. Not anymore. 

It is 1998, his name is Arthur, and this is his last field mission. He sits in a gentleman club, pretending to be alseep in his chair while men around him talk. A judge and a lawyer who should not have been talking. A corrupt mayor. An arms dealer. After recording the required information, he gets up and passes the waiter, holding the man's arm, asking for the nearest chemist's. No one notices the clear liquid he pours into the decanter. As far as last missions go, it's uneventful. Straightforward. Information extraction. Elimination. No trace. Successful. 

It is 1999, his name is Arthur, and he is most assuredly not giggling like a schoolboy, sitting in his office and listening in on how Merlin directs Lancelot and Percival through their mission in the Congo. Merlin is strictly professional, of course, but next to him, feet on the table is Galahad who is decidedly less professional and escaped the medical ward 20 minutes ago where he had been handcuffed to the bed after his recent exposure to the product of a drug trafficking ring. He should be worried, but Galahad is going to be fine. But right now, he is on a trip and commenting on everything, from the surface of the table to his shined shoes and how Merlin's bald head reflect the glow of his monitor. He muffles his laugh when Merlin threatens to duct-tape Galahad's mouth shut.

It is 2000, his name is Herr König and the opera ball in Vienna is still as boring as it had been decades ago. At least this time he gets to sit instead of dancing for hours upon hours to seduce a rich Spanish heiress. As far as last last missions go, it's decidedly nicer than the one in Barcelona.  
"The bomb is under this table," he says, not worried in the slightest. He has Merlin to guide him through de-fusing it, and Galahad and Lancelot as his support.  
"West-wing clear," Galahad's voice comes through his earpiece. "we really ought to invest in outfitting the swallowtail with extra ammunition. It has considerably more fabric to it."  
"East wing clear," Lancelot announces, "and I second Galahad's motion."  
He feels pride as Galahad steps to his right, Lancelot to his left.  
"I need a diversion," he says as way of greeting, "2 uninterrupted minutes."  
"Leave it to me," Lancelot says with that grin that spells trouble.  
Merlin sighs into their ears, remembering the last time Lancelot had said that and ended with an exploding hotel in Singapore.  
Instead, Lancelot steps to Galahad, gives a bow, grasps his hand and presses a kiss to the knuckles (which is not the proper way to conduct a handkiss as they all know).  
"May I have this dance?"  
Mordred leaves the secondary pair of glasses on the table as a security measure while he is hidden underneath the tablecloth defusing the dirty bomb.  
Back in Kingsman, he brings a particularly exquisite bottle of whiskey to Merlin's office and their glasses click as they watch shocked aristocracy - one little lady fainting even - as Lancelot sweeps over the ballroom floor with Galahad in his arms.  
"We should make Lancelot take dance lessons, as this is not a proper waltz at all."  
It worked as a distraction. He recalls that he has just watched the counter go black, right at the moment that Lancelot dipped Galahad.  
Also not proper waltzing procedure. 

It is 2001, his name is Arthur and not for the first time he's asking himself if there actually is an subconscious reason why he keeps up pairing Lancelot and Percival. Galahad calls him out on it and his boy is right. It is too delightful to watch the straight-laced Percival interact with the perpetually joking Lancelot. 

It is 2002, his name is Arthur, and Merlin still blushes red when Arthur congratulates him on his newest gadget. 

It is 2003, his name is Arthur, and once again he watches Galahad being patched up. 

It is 2006, his name is Arthur, and today he kills a hitman on the tube. 

It is 2008, his name is Chester King and he attends the funeral of his last little sister. For the rest of his family, he is the aloof Reginald, holing up in a remote family estate after gaining a considerable fortune at the age of 19. He is the brother then uncle then granduncle who shows up once or twice every decade for an hour of stilted conversation before he leaves with his driver. To her he had been Chester, the only one really who acknowledged his changed name. Now she is dead and he wonders if he will live long enough for another awkward family meeting in maybe 5 years. It is a cruel sense of irony that has kept him alive while his younger siblings in considerably less dangerous occupations keep on dying. 

It is 2010, his name is Arthur and his joints are too arthritic to shoot a gun properly anymore. 

It is 2014, his name is Arthur, and Lancelot dies. Again. The brandy is old and exquisite and he can taste it for the first time. Lancelot's replacement begins. He picks the top boy from Winchester again. Frankly he doesn't care if he drowns in the first round. 

It is 2015, his name is Arthur and he talks to a man about a solution. An end. 

It is 2015, his name is Arthur and he sits in Galahad's room, watching the machines beep reassuringly. Only Galahad would survive a bomb blowing up in his face. Barely clinging to life, but holding on for months now. 

It is 2015, his name is Arthur, and Galahad flies to Kentucky. What should have been a quick death - Valentine promised quick, Arthur couldn't bear to make Galahad witness his betrayal, to have his boy know just how far he would go - is a symphony of violence. He watches as Galahad slays them. His knight, worth a hundred fighters. His boy. And he lives, the last man standing in the church. Galahad walks out and he hears him talk. "What did you do to me?" Something broke in Galahad.  
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Quick. Clean.  
Not have his boy become a monster. 

It is 2015, his name is Arthur, and he pushes poison over to Galahad's candidate. Have his poison change another, as it changed him and as it took hold in Galahad. He made a monster of his boy. He will make a martyr of this one. 

It is 2015 and his name doesn't matter as he dies.


End file.
